


Running Late

by murdersquash (angryjam)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjam/pseuds/murdersquash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock goes to epic lengths to ensure John doesn't bother going on a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Late

**Author's Note:**

> Some mild swearing, mutual getting-off.

John Watson was slowly torturing a cup of tea while he perused the contents of The Lancet, still in grey sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his bare feet hooked around the rungs of his chair. It was raining outside and the watery light in 221 B enhanced the lazy Saturday morning mood. His phone beeped.

Absently he reached for it and opened the text before reading it, trying to keep his place in the medical journal. He glanced at its contents, then started, splashing Barry's across the table. "Bugger!" he cursed, jumping up from the table, grabbing the journal away from the mess and flapping the pages to shake off excess tea. No time to waste on a more effective cleanup method, he dropped The Lancet in his chair as he dashed to his room.

After five frantic minutes, during which his efforts to simultaneously shed sweats and t-shirt while donning jeans and a jumper proved painfully ambitious, John had finally succeeded in dressing. Hopping on one foot then the next while pulling on his socks, he jammed his feet into his old trainers, shoved his wallet, phone and keys in his pockets, and dashed for the stairs.

John was halfway down the stairs, with only a few feet standing between him and the door, and his last tenuous chance of making things up to Karen, when Sherlock's angular frame careened around the corner from Mrs. Hudson's flat and rocketed up the last few steps to collide with him. "Fucking hell," John's first thought was for the precious minutes that would be wasted by the time it'd take to disentangle himself from the heap of arms and legs belonging to his flat-mate. His second thought was that Sherlock's elbows were fucking knives and that he should be required to wear layers.

The force of the collision knocked Sherlock flat on his back at the foot of the stairs, and as he or John or both had seized onto the other at the time of the collision, John landed sprawled across the larger man. He shook his head, dazed, while Sherlock gulped for air and flailed around, somehow maneuvering his way to the top of the pile before collapsing on John. "Sherlock," John said, pushing at the other man's shoulders. "Sherlock, ugh, get off already." 

Sherlock was unresponsive, and far from aiding John's efforts appeared to be making himself heavier than anyone with his bony frame should find possible. "Sherlock?" The calm tone John reserved for patients, government officials, and Sherlock was tinged with worry. He freed his right arm from the folds of Sherlock's heavy coat and quickly located his flat-mate's pulse at the carotid artery. A bit fast but strong and steady. 

He started to push Sherlock's body off of him with more force, but the other man moaned and resisted his efforts. "Sherlock." John's patience was evaporating rapidly. "I have somewhere to be, I don't have time for any nonsense. Stop being dramatic and get off before I lose my temper."

Sherlock immediately lifted his head to stare down at John. "Where could you possibly have to be now? I thought we were going to the docks this afternoon to take some mud samples."

"So did I," John said. "I also thought today was Saturday and not Sunday. I'm two hours late for my date with Karen."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "I fail to see the point in dashing off to plead with her now. You'll waste the entire afternoon trying to get back in her good graces, and failing, and then moping the rest of the weekend." He narrowed his pale eyes at John, daring him to refute this logic and once again prove his middling intelligence.

John considered kneeing him in the balls. "Just get off," he said, shoving for emphasis.

"No," Sherlock was developing an obstinate set to his mouth. "Not until you promise you won't go dashing off to Karen's, making an arse of yourself, and wasting my time." He pushed back against John, pinning him to the floor. 

John glared at him, both angry and slightly amused at his arrogance--a blend of emotion he had grown to associate with Sherlock. "It's always about you, isn't it."

"Maybe I'm just looking out for you, John," Sherlock smirked, shifting into a comfortable position against John and the floor. The movement brought John's attention to the way their bodies were pressed together. Although Sherlock had few physical boundaries, it was the closest he'd ever physically been--the closest he'd ever seen his flat-mate let anyone get, to the man. It was also the gayest position he'd ever been in with Sherlock, and they'd been in plenty, though it never seemed to bother his flat-mate in the slightest. He began to worry that Mrs. Hudson would see them before he managed to extricate himself.

"She's gone to visit her sister in Kent for the weekend," Sherlock said. His voice rumbled through John's chest. John didn't bother asking who, Sherlock was one step ahead of him as usual, no need to give him the opportunity to gloat. He decided to close his eyes and count to ten. When he finished, Sherlock was still staring down at him, showing no signs of relenting.

"You know I can make you get off anytime I want," John said. It was true; though Sherlock had about a foot on him, John was much the stronger of the two.

Sherlock's mouth crooked up at the corner and his pale eyes crinkled, if you knew where to look, which John did. The realization that Sherlock was enjoying himself gave John a twinge of apprehension. "What?" he said.

"I bet you can," Sherlock said. "Make me get off." He wriggled his hips sharply, shockingly, against John's. The resulting rush of embarrassment, arousal, blended with the disconcerting feeling of familiarity, stole John’s breath for a moment.

He could feel his face flushing as he stared up at Sherlock, who looked perfectly composed, even normal, as he pressed his body up against John. "What--" John started, but his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing?" He didn't add, "please don't," because when had please ever worked with Sherlock?

Sherlock didn't answer, instead shifting his weight and redistributing his limbs, placing one invasive but not uncomfortable knee between John's legs. John choked in response and tried to sit up, only to find Sherlock's left arm snaked around his back and his flat-mate's long fingers cradling the back of his skull, while Sherlock used the weight of his upper body to push him back to the floor. After a moment, John relaxed in the awkward embrace. It was similar to the way he gave up about halfway through their verbal disagreements, feeling out-manuevered and resigned. The feeling was so familiar-- Sherlock's smell, his coat, and the shape of his body--were so familiar, that it was impossible to resolve the conflict between the comfortable intimacy he felt with his flat-mate, and the alarming new sexual context that had been created in the last few moments.

John groaned and shut his eyes. "Goddamn you," he said with feeling.

He felt Sherlock chuckle, then a warm breath on the side of his neck. Then Sherlock's warm, wet mouth was slurping against his throat, and Sherlock's teeth were scraping a raw, embarrassing moan from him. "Relax," Sherlock murmured, and the vibration from that deep voice and the slight exhalation against the abused skin of his neck made John a lost man. He was done thinking--after months of cock-blocking, intentional or not, from the insufferable man currently straddling him, John Watson was about to get off. And if Sherlock thought he was going to be in control of the experience he could bloody well think again. 

He struggled his arms free of Sherlock's weight despite the other man's attempts to keep him pinned down, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's messy curls and yanking him away from his neck to face him. Sherlock stared back at him, defiant and unrepentant. John caught a flicker of surprise on Sherlock's face as instead of pushing him away, John forced his head down, mashing their lips together in a rough kiss. Knowing that Sherlock hadn’t been able to anticipate his reaction made John smile into the kiss. 

Further gratifying was Sherlock's open-mouthed reaction, which John took full advantage of, thrusting his tongue into his flat-mate's mouth. Sherlock responded hesitantly, making John wonder how much experience his friend had in the snogging department. It amused him to think of the other man's brain working overtime to figure out what what made a kiss good. John deepened the kiss, stroking Sherlock's tongue before pulling back to breathe. Sherlock didn't pull away, his lips still pressed to John's after the kiss was broken. 

John breathed against Sherlock’s mouth, opening his eyes to see that Sherlock's were shut tightly. It was cute, he thought, then gave himself a firm mental shake. Sherlock was not cute. Girls were cute. Some blokes were cute. Sherlock Holmes, unstable sociopath, was not cute. As if to prove this point, Sherlock's teeth bit into his lower lip, distracting him from further reflection. John opened his mouth, sucking Sherlock's tongue in and scraping his teeth gently against it as he released it, making Sherlock gasp and shudder against him.

John had never thought of himself as particularly vindictive, but hearing Sherlock lose a little bit of his smug prepossession felt like sweet revenge. That sharp intake of breath gave John the strong urge to wring more such reactions out of him. He attacked Sherlock’s mouth with all the technical ability his years of snogging had given him, taking pleasure in each little moan and movement he induced. In a distant corner of his mind, he registered that he had not paid such careful attention to kissing in years. Sherlock's kissing technique was hesitant and a little sloppy--he let John take the lead for the most part, with a few bursts of enthusiasm involving an excess of licking and teeth. It was endearing, in a way, that Sherlock would expose his lack of skill. Perhaps no one had ever told him just how bad he was at snogging. Perhaps he'd never been snogged properly.

John moved one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, tracing the sharp vertebrae beneath the soft skin. Sherlock arched his head back as John pulled their lips apart and transferred his attention to Sherlock's throat, shoving the ever-present scarf out of the way to kiss and lick pale skin. This got quite a reaction from Sherlock, whose long fingers tightened in John's short hair and clung to his collar as he shivered with each swipe of John's tongue, making a sort of keening sound deep in his throat. John closed his teeth around a chunk of sensitive white skin, bit down and sucked hard, and Sherlock moaned and writhed against him wantonly, open-mouthed and panting. John took the opportunity to shove his thigh up between Sherlock's legs. "Nnngh," Sherlock yelped, his hips jerking forward to grind against John's thigh. It was hotter than any pasty, long-limbed sociopath had a right to be, and John felt himself growing hard.

"John," Sherlock said, long fingers moving to frame John's face as his hips moved in little jerks, like he was trying to hold back. John shoved a free hand under the ever-present greatcoat and plundered Sherlock's shirt from his trousers, ripping some of the buttons as he pulled it up to expose Sherlock's skin. They pattered and rolled across the floor. "John," Sherlock whimpered as John ran his hand up his back, thumbing along the edges of his ribs. "John please--can you please--" his normally deep voice was high-pitched, strangled. 

"Less talking," John said, shifting his thigh to rub against Sherlock's cock. He could feel its outline easily through the other man's thin trousers-- Sherlock was so aroused, he was probably leaking. The thought made John's cock twitch in response. He flexed his thigh again; Sherlock's eyes flickered shut briefly before pinning John with his typical pale stare, who didn't have time to feel nervous before Sherlock disentangled his fingers from his collar and shoved his hand between their bodies. He cupped the outline of John's erection and rubbed. John arched into his touch, moaning softly, and pulled Sherlock back down to kiss him. "Fuck me, that's hot." He slipped his hand from Sherlock's shoulders down to his lower back, urging his hips to move faster and harder, nudging Sherlock's hand away as he shifted to realign their bodies so that their erections would rub against each other with each thrust.

"Fuck, that's gonna chafe tomorrow," John groaned. Sherlock stopped moving.

"Should I stop?" he sounded worried. 

"God, no," John said, chuckling. He nudged Sherlock's hips with his own, coaxing him back into the rhythm. Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed as he thrust against John, a look of concentration on his face. John's mouth quirked as he realized that he was in imminent danger of seeing Sherlock Holmes' face as he came. Seeing Sherlock moving above him, his hair tousled and his scarf pulled away to reveal the truly prize hickey John had just inflicted, his eyes closed and lips reddened from snogging-- it was a sexier sight than John would have imagined, if he had been prone to fantasizing about his flat-mate. Which he wasn’t... although he had a feeling that was about to change. Sherlock was clearly close to climax, his hips bucking wildly out of rhythm, his stranglehold on John's collar jerking with each spasm. Soon he gave a full-body shudder accompanied by an animal noise, and collapsed on top of John, burrowing his face into John's warm neck and panting heavily. John pumped his hips against one of Sherlock's sprawling legs a few more times before he came in his pants with a moan. 

"God that was a sexy noise," Sherlock murmured. "Did you just come?"

"Mhmm," John said into Sherlock's messy curls. "Did you?"

"Fuck yes," Sherlock said. "Possibly the best orgasm of my life." 

"You're welcome," John said wryly. He didn’t feel angry, despite being fairly certain Sherlock just used his body to satisfy some selfish need or curiosity. Over the past few months, he has learned that Sherlock never does anything for other than self-serving reasons. Lying on his back, beginning to feel the hardness of the floor through the warm haze of arousal, John was too tired to be outraged.

Sherlock lifted his head from John's shoulder to look at him, pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thank you," he said, kissing John, not quite on the corner of his mouth, before climbing off of him and taking the stairs two at a time. John rubbed the back of his hand over his lips and sighed, then pushed himself up off the floor and climbed the stairs. One at a time.

John arrived upstairs to the flat, closed the door, and fished his phone out of his pocket to see if Karen had texted him. She hadn’t. He checked to see if he’d messaged anyone with his arse while he and Sherlock were humping on the floor like teenagers. He hadn't. Then he took a second look at the date on his phone and frowned.

He tossed the phone down and picked up his laptop from the couch where either he or Sherlock last discarded it. Cracking it open he checked the desktop, his email, the blog, finally opening the London Times. After staring at the screen for several moments, he set the computer down calmly, precisely, and walked over to Sherlock's closed door.

"Sherlock," he said, in a voice that sounded two parts rage, one part stern disappointment. He reminded himself of a parent, or a headmaster, about to discipline a child. The thought made him rub his forehead as if trying to erase it through his skull.

Sherlock cracked the door and met John's eyes without a shadow of guilt or remorse. "Yes, John," he says. It would have been a convincing act, if John were not aware that Sherlock never looked guilty, because Sherlock has never felt guilt like a normal person.

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" The pale eyes widened a touch. "Kiss you? John, you seemed to like it... was I wrong?"

"Fucking hell," John nearly lost it for a moment, then recovered with a shaky deep breath. "No, you beastly little fuck. Why did you change all the dates on me so I'd not meet Karen? What the fuck is wrong with you? How much time did it even take you to hack my blog... my god, Sherlock, you've been referencing incorrect dates all week just to throw me off! You had fucking Lestrade bowling on fucking Wednesday instead of Thursday! What is it, all some big game with you, trying to think of new ways to mess with my head? I would think it's rather too easy for someone of your massive fucking intellect!"

Sherlock looked at him with his sort of pitying look reserved for occasions when John is being particularly stupid. "It wasn't for my entertainment, John."

"Alright then," John seethed, "Let's hear your brilliant explanation that rationalizes everything and makes me feel like a stupid ass. Go on. Let's have it."

Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his coat sleeve. "Well," he shot a glance at John, "did Karen tell you she was moving?"

"No," John said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"She's moving to Surrey, which you'd know if you paid attention at all, and she was going to ask you--you know, ask you to move with."

"Only in your twisted head would this situation require relationship sabotage of this scale," John sighed. "What, you couldn't just let her ask and let me make my own choice? Like a normal human being."

"Well, but she's not right for you. And... it would be highly inefficient, you moving in with her, moving away, it not working out. Besides, how would you assist me from Surrey?"

John snorted. "Now there's the selfish motive I expect from Sherlock Holmes. Well, I'm happy to say it was a huge waste of your time."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock’s voice sounded surprised, and almost, John flattered himself, a bit anxious.

"For a genius you really can be an idiot," John said. "Like I'd move to Surrey!" 

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Right." They stood in silence at in Sherlock's doorway, looking at each other for a beat before the full significance of Sherlock’s scheme hits John.

"So the whole stairway collision--so you planned that?" John demanded.

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "A little. Well I knew there was a chance she might text you, and you being you would dash off to make amends. And she might even take you back, you can be quite appealing when you try."

"So you were waiting in Mrs. Hudson's flat--how long? All morning? Just so you could run into me."

"A good portion of the morning, yes," Sherlock said.

"And the, the floor-sex, or whatever you want to call it," John said. "What was that, just your warped idea of an appropriate diversion?"

"Well I needed you to stay with me," Sherlock said, as if John just isn’t understanding him properly.

"And the whole, being bad at snogging thing? That was just another elaborate detail in your mad charade?" John's voice broke shamefully, and he felt his face flush. The thought that Sherlock might have acted inexperienced to add just the right touch of verisimilitude to sell his performance made him sick to his stomach. It was a betrayal of intimacy.

But when he looked up at Sherlock's face, he met a look of shocked incomprehension that eased the tense feeling of nausea. 

"Bad?" Sherlock said, frowning slightly. "Really bad? How do you mean, bad?" It looked to John as if he simply could not comprehend it.

John started to grin, then chuckle, then laugh maniacally. He laughed until he fell on the floor, kicking, and kept on laughing after Sherlock slammed the door in a petulant sulk. He laughed until he was completely spent, and then, for the next week, the next sixth months even, he would continue to chuckle at odd moments whenever he recalled the priceless look on Sherlock's face after realizing there was one area in which he did not excel.


End file.
